Overlooked
by Gravedancer94
Summary: Memories can be a burden, so why have them if you get stuck with the ones you don't need? I think I can almost see some of my earliest moments...   Grimmjow's POV Future GrimmxIchi


**I know I still have to finish my other stories but I just had to start this.** :)  
><strong>First person has never been kind to me but Im still willing to give it a try.<strong>

**Summary-Memories can be a burden, so why have them if you get stuck with the ones you don't need? I think I can almost see some of my earliest moments...  
>(Grimmjow's POV)Future GrimmxIchi<br>****I still have no clue where I'll be going with this story but you have been warned that there will in fact be yaoi. **

**Disclaimer-I don't own Bleach or any characters**

I guess it would only be fair if I began at the beginning. I only happen to remember very vague images about my childhood except for the traumatizing ones of course. Who could ever forget those?

As a child I was always very quiet, there was never a time when I chose to be, I just was. My mother to this day has never understood it and hates me sometimes for it.

Hate is a strong word isn't it?

Anyhow it made me different from others kids which kept them away and I was satisfied with that. In preschool I would just sit under the shade of a tall green tree centered by grass and read books. Regardless of which language they were in, English or Spanish didn't matter to me. Although I had learned Spanish first I taught myself other languages. Sounds crazy for a four year old doesn't it? Even if I didn't know it I had a goal to achieve.

In all that time that I sat there, under the green tree, one boy with dark hair decided to get to close because he simply had nothing better to occupy his time with. So he began his own routine, every day during recess while everyone was playing on the blacktop and I'd walk over to my favorite green tree, he would come by and push me until I was on the ground. My knees would scrape either against the blacktop or the grass and my elbows got sore enough that I could no longer lean against the edge of my desk.

Yet no one helped me up and everyone saw. They just stood there and made me wonder if they hated me or if it was all just part of my imagination. At that time my family was living in Mexico and my mom worked on a daily basis. As far as I know my father was in the US with my uncle at the time having it already be a year since his disappearance. I wouldn't see my mother at all until ten pm so I didn't want to get in the way. Why burden her with my problems? To me she didn't deserve that, most mothers don't. But one day I went home and my mother began to tuck me into bed. There, she saw the bruises that covered my arm.

All I can say is that she was ticked off. Not only at the boy with the dark hair but at me. One, for not saying anything and two, for not hurting him back. The next day she decided to take the day off. She came with me to school so I could point out the boy with the dark hair. We waited until he arrived and she began to lecturing him for what he had done and how it wasn't right. All this happened while the mother of the boy started walking towards us. I hid behind my mother and knew that it wasn't going to end well so I tugged at her skirt begging her that I just wanted to go home.

The boy's mother stood there and began to argue with mine until I couldn't take it anymore so I walked off and sat by the school's wall and waited. Arms clenched around my knees. All I can recall is that they argued for a long time. From a distance I picked up parts of what they were saying.

The boy's mother made the mistake of saying that her son hadn't done anything wrong and called me a dirty little liar. The lady was furious but nowhere near as much as my mother. Then she must have said something bad because the lady was at the point where she began to cry. There was more yelling from both sides until the lady just walked off holding the boy's hand and wiped the tears that fell from her face.

I didn't see the boy with the dark hair the next day, or the next, or the next. I just sat there, alone again on my favorite green tree.

Whispers, coming and going across the blacktop.

Glares, sinking into the spines of my books.

**Hmm. . I'm still thinking about this one **


End file.
